When I was growing up, I was rather like Dorothy in that I believed there was absolutely no place like home. This was during the eighties and nineties, a great time to be a kid. Regardless, my room was my daily refuge from pebble-sized problems that felt like avalanches. I’d close the door and exhale, feeling the weight of the world fade away. To this day, my childhood house is still “Home” in my auto-dial list.
But home isn’t just a house.
Although my physical home remained throughout my childhood, during middle school a cataclysmic shift occurred within my conceptual home. A classmate died in a car accident and then six months later, I lost a close friend in a similar manner. In turn, I started lashing out and questioning everything my conceptual home was built on.
At fifteen years old, I found myself staring into a mirror and seeing a distraught, wayward girl. We were detached. I pushed on my face to see if I could feel what she felt. Tears ran down her cheeks as we gazed at one another. Years later, I tried to capture this intense moment in poetry:
In Tense
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Those bottomless eyes staring,
staring through the empty vessel.
Flowers blooming just outside her range
of vision A little girl, all smiles,
passenger in a mini electric vehicle on a safe
dusty gray path, bumping over rocks and sticks and
leaves the color of fire
going away
and close
away
and close
a pendulum’s hand begging for still.
But those eyes—
they seem to see only bleakness but
sense a shiver of music familiar yet
forgotten then dug out and
thrashed across the floor. Look at
those precious immortal things that once
filled you up. Now beaten bloody, bruised black by
your own hands.
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I want to reach in, take hold, violently
brandish you into memories yet to unfold.
All of it. The tragic beauty, the pure joy.
But there I go again… back to the coming from. Tenses
are meant for those who live inside the clock.
I want out.
After years of watching and rewatching the movie, I finally understood how Dorothy felt when she woke up in Oz.
That was the first night I didn’t feel at home in my own house. In my own body. The stark contrast between the girl I used to be to the girl I’d become threw me into a riptide out of which I was unable to pull myself for some time.
Eventually, I got my head above water. A life of education, travel, and heartache have molded me. Yet, I haven’t lost that adolescent hunger to question everything. In fact, it has increased tenfold.
Now, when I begin to feel rooted in a viewpoint, I wander to the other side. Why might I be wrong? I’ll consider the opposition, swim in it for a while, then return to my conceptual home and synthesize the new knowledge with what I previously believed. Finally, I’ll reflect: Am I still sold on this idea? Can I revamp my prior beliefs in any way? Or, did my exploration of the other side just reinforce what I originally believed?
This mindset didn’t evolve overnight. Like anyone, I still yearn for the assurance of a sturdy home.
According to Cron (2016), we’re biologically wired to pursue safety over change, regardless if the change is inevitably positive. And yet, we still crave change, hence the reason many of us are obsessed with all forms of entertainment. We favor the luxury of living through a variety of experiences in the safety of our own homes.
But it’s not enough.
As an evolving society, it’s selfish to take a short step out the front door. We must challenge ourselves to come up with solutions to age-old and new-age problems. Although we’re technologically advancing into the future, we’re also regressing in humanitarian principles. We must evolve individually before “We” as a society stop scuttling backward and begin taking long strides toward a better world.
So, let’s gather our courage and sneak out the back door. Shall we?
